“Hmmm.” The Colonel accepted Mrs. Carter’s ability to differentiate between the sounds of car engines without question. “Could have come in the other way. From the side toward the naval base.”
“Yes,” Samantha was glad that he was as eager as they all were to believe that the person who had murdered poor Olivia was not one of them.
He began running in place. “Any chance of hot chocolate this evening?”
“I suppose I can.”
He turned like a leaf in the wind, beginning to run off. “Geeze, Sam, don’t be so damn eager to have my company. You’ll make me blush.” And with that he was gone, running lightly down her drive and back up the street.
Samantha settled back down on her knees. She sat there a second, feeling the sun on her shoulders, and tried to recapture the peace she always found in her garden. After a while, she began to scratch lightly in the dirt at the base of the nearest peony plant.
Peace did come again. She was smiling as she fed the voracious plant and its neighbors the necessary bone and blood meal that would guarantee the profusion of glorious blooms for which peonies were prized.
Peonies were her favorites. Until she looked at the Iris bed. Or the roses. She loved them all. Even the more humble Shastas and Coreopsis. They were like children to her—responding to care, giving delight.
Samantha heard the phone ring, but decided to ignore it. The portable was only inches from her, but her gardening gloves were so dirty she hated to touch the instrument. It stopped ringing, and she settle back on her heels with a sigh.
“Laurie was right,” she told the plants just in front of her. “You peonies really are pigs, you know.” She reached for the bag of bone meal on her left, and spilled out some of the gray, sand-like substance into her gloved left hand.
The phone started ringing again.
“Oh, darn!” She spilled the bone meal back into its bag, grabbed the fingers of her right hand glove and pulled it off. Now she could touch the ‘talk’ button without filling it with soil supplements at any rate. She poked it and tried to sound pleasant as she said, “Hello?”
“Would you like to go to lunch today?” Janet Wilson’s voice was eager.
Samantha’s annoyance faded a little. The girl must be lonely, indeed, to seek out the company of someone almost twice her age like this. In contrast, Alison had to be either past desperate or feeling really charitable before she’d volunteer to go to lunch with her aunt or her honorary Aunt Samantha.
While Samantha hesitated, Janet said, “After all, we didn’t get to go to lunch yesterday, just to visit Jasmine.”
“I’d love to.” It was a blatant exaggeration. She’d really rather finish all the spring fertilizing she’d had planned, but Janet needed her, and it was always good to get out.
“I thought we could try that new Mexican restaurant that just opened in Chesapeake. I know it’s kind of far, but Herb—I mean Mr. Talley—said I could take two hours for lunch because he’s all caught up on letters, so we could make it.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up.”
“But, I . . .” Samantha was talking to a dead line. “Drat! I wish she wouldn’t do that!”
Rags came over from where he’d been sitting on the sun warmed rock that she and Andrew had brought back from a vacation in New Mexico. Flat and rectangular, it had still taken both of them a super effort to get it into the trunk of the car. Worth the effort, though. It was the only rock in her garden. “Huh,” she said aloud at that thought, “It’s the only rock anywhere around.”
Tidewater was all sandy loam except for the heavy clay soil down nearer Dismal Swamp. There were no rocks in Tidewater. The early settlers of Norfolk had used the cobblestones brought over as ballast in ships from their native England to build the first streets.
When Samantha had been a little girl, her grandfather had lived on Marshall Avenue in the once elegant section called Brambleton. She could still remember, vividly, how difficult it had been to ride her bicycle on the cobblestone surface of the street between his corner house with its tall Victorian tower and the school yard of John B. Goode Elementary.
The remembrance of her Grandfather’s tower sent her gaze toward John McLain’s. “At least my Granddaddy didn’t use his to snoop,” she muttered. Rising, she slapped her gloves together to get the dirt off and used them to brush off her knees.
Rags turned and led the way to the garage for all the world as if that were the mission for which he’d left the warm surface of his rock. Trotting over to the side of the large double garage where Samantha stored her garden tools, he stood waiting while she hung her kneeling pad and replaced the bag of bone meal in the cabinet over the potting bench. He was used to her routine, obviously.
“I’m going to lunch with Janet Wilson, Rags.”
“Errf.”
Sealing her gloves in an old coffee can so that no spiders could get into them, she thrust her stainless steel trowel into the bucket of oiled sand that she kept for the purpose of cleaning and protectively coating her tools and worked it up and down a few times. “You don’t seem enthused, Rags.”
Rags just stared at her. Unblinking.
“You wouldn’t want to come. Dogs don’t eat Mexican food. If you did, you’d disgrace yourself.” Rags turned his head away with slow deliberation and stared out at the birds on the driveway.
“Don’t be insulted, Rags. Any dog would have problems. The hot spices are difficult for dogs.” Samantha was flabbergasted. Was she really placating her six pound tyrant? She was very much afraid that she was. This had to stop. Who was in charge here anyway? “Rags!” she said, attempting to treat him like a dog. “Get in the house.” Then she had to rush to get to the door and have it open so that she could be obeyed.
She needn’t have bothered. With his usual measured tread and newly injured dignity, Rags paraded to the door like a king walking up the aisle at Westminster and entered the house. He never looked back.
“Oh, Dammit.” Samantha slammed the door behind her. First she couldn’t finish fertilizing her flowers, and now her dog was mad at her.
***
“Here we are!” Janet swooped her car into the parking spot closest to the door of the restaurant and slammed it into park even as she stomped on the parking brake. The little red sports car rocked hard against the parking pin, and Samantha made a solemn vow to drive in the future.
Samantha knew she was a fast driver herself— Laurie called her ‘zippy but safe,’ but she’d always thought of her car as a helpful extension of herself. Janet Wilson treated her vehicle like something to be subdued by force! It had been . . . Samantha searched for something charitable to think about their wild drive . . . an exhilarating experience to ride with the younger woman.
Samantha levered herself out of her side of the tiny car and stood tentatively. Good, her legs still worked. She must be getting old to have wondered if they would, but they had been really cramped in the little sports car. She glanced across the roof of the car at the lithe young girl smiling at her and knew that, compared to Janet, she already was considered old.
Boy. That thought could spoil the day if she let it, so she didn’t. She’d just remember that she had it all over youth in experience and accumulated knowledge. Not to mention social graces, she added, as Janet turned and entered the restaurant’s vestibule without waiting for her.
By the time Samantha caught up to her, Janet was sliding into a booth at the front windows.
“I hope you like a booth.”
“Yes, I prefer them.”
“I know it’s silly, but I always feel I can talk more freely when I’m in a booth.”
Janet’s bright smile drew an answering one from Samantha.
They ordered from a waiter who knew only enough English to help them get what they wanted. Samantha refrained from using her Spanish, as she’d found it just threw the young waiters into confusion, except for telling him, ‘solamente queso, no carne’ in her
chili relleno.
Confused waiter or no, she wasn’t taking any chances. She hated the way stuffed chili peppers had been ruined in so many Mexican restaurants by the addition of the ground meat used to make tacos. A friend had told her they’d done this in order to please the American palette, but it certainly did not please hers!
The orders placed, and the cola she always drank with Mexican food tall and frosty in front of her, Samantha stripped the last bit of paper from her straw and watched as Janet carefully poured her beer into the glass she’d asked for.
Janet looked up from her task. “I like it without the head,” she offered.
“I’ve never had a taste for beer. My husband drank it with Mexican food, too, though.”
“Have you been without him long?”
“Four years.”
“I’m sorry.”
Samantha smiled. “Yes, so am I. He was a wonderful man. Thank you.”
“I enjoyed meeting Jasmine.”
“Oh,” Samantha accepted the shift gratefully, “I’m so glad. I’m afraid she’s getting tired of inactivity. She wasn’t quite her usual self.”
“I think she’s just pissed, if you’ll excuse my French, that Benny Stoddard hasn’t been to see her.” Janet watched her intently.
Samantha was a little slow in admitting, “Yes, I think you have that right.” She sat up even straighter. “However, you may rest assured that I have every intention of getting him to go see her soon. Very soon.” She gave a decisive little nod. “Even if I have to drag him by the hair of his head.”
Janet’s eyes went a little wide at that. Obviously she wasn’t used to women like Samantha being ready to get physical. After a little silence, she asked, “Were Benny and Jasmine really close, then?”
Samantha considered a moment. “I think that Jasmine stood in a place very close to that of a parent with Benny. Certainly they were together almost all the time the boy was at home. As I understand it, Benny Stoddard wasn’t what you would call an outgoing child.
‘Pleasant but not sociable’, is how Jasmine describes him. He liked his greenhouse and always read a lot, according to her. Summers when he was home, he sailed his Moth every good day. And you know there’s no room to take anyone else in a Moth.”
Janet’s lovely brow was furrowed. “Is a Moth some sort of sailboat?”
“Yes.” Samantha smiled. “My husband and I had a Hampton. That’s larger.”
“Such funny names for boats.” Janet laughed. Men lunching in the table opposite them turned and smiled appreciatively at the sound. Samantha thought again how lovely the girl was, and how sad it was that she had lost the last member of her family so tragically.
Their meal arrived, with the usual warning about the plates being hot.
Janet asked, “Why do you think Benny hasn’t gone to see Jasmine?”
“I wish I knew. He seems rather shy. I don’t know if that’s the way he’s always been, but he’s almost . . .” she sought hard for the right word. “. . . tentative. He was constantly looking to Brenda for reassurance. At least he was when I crashed in on them the other morning and as good as demanded that he go to the hospital.”
“Perhaps that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“The fact that you pressured him a bit. A lot of us really hate to feel as if someone else is making our decisions for us.” Her face grew solemn. “I know I do.”
“Do you suppose that’s it? It never occurred to me that he might take it that way.” She thought a minute, cutting vents into her stuffed chili pepper to help it cool. “It never occurred to me that he’d be slow to visit Jasmine either.” She added, “No matter. I’m taking him to see Jasmine, and that’s that.”
They ate a while in silence. Then Janet looked as if she’d just thought of something. Something that caused her to freeze with her fork halfway to her mouth. In hushed tones she asked, “You don’t suppose . . . ?” Then her voice brightened. “No. That’s too unbelievable!”
“What?” Samantha’s interest was aroused.
“Oh, it was just a silly . . . No, a totally ridiculous thought. I’ve obviously been watching too much TV.”
“What was it, Janet. Even if it is ridiculous, it just might get us thinking.”
“Well.” Janet was blushing a little. “If you promise you won’t laugh.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
“Well, just suppose that perhaps Benny doesn’t want to go see Jasmine because . . . Oh, this is too silly!” She stabbed her fork into the mound of Spanish rice on her plate and ducked her head so that Samantha couldn’t witness her embarrassment.
“Janet!” Samantha had to work to keep her voice from being sharp. “Even if it is the most far-fetched idea in the world, you’ve begun it, and you’ve got to finish it or I’ll die of curiosity.”
“All right. But it really is asinine.”
“Tell.” Samantha didn’t even try to keep the menace out of the word.
“I just thought that . . . Well, I thought what if . . .” Samantha gripped the edge of the table to keep from shaking the girl opposite her and demanded, “What!”
“What if Benny Stoddard . . . isn’t really Benny Stoddard?”
Chapter Twenty-three
Samantha called Laura the minute Janet dropped her off. “Just wait, Rags,” she told the impatient dog at her feet. “I’ll take you out as soon as I make this call.”
Laura Fulton’s breathless “Hello,” was all Samantha needed to hear.
“Laurie. I’ve got to talk with you. The most amazing idea has just been expressed—”
“By Janet Wilson?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Saw her pick you up. Saw her drop you off. If this keeps up, we’ll have to plant a tall hedge between us. I’m beginning to feel like a snoop.”
“Oh, never mind that. You’d be a friendly snoop. Can I come over?”
“Is this about Olivia?”
“No.” Then Samantha hesitated. Could Janet’s suggestion that someone might be impersonating Benny Stoddard have anything to do with Olivia Charles’s murder? A chill passed over her.
Sensing her change in mood, Rags gave a low growl and came to stand close beside her.
When Samantha spoke again her voice was strained. “Well, maybe. Yes. It very well could be.”
“I’m calling the Colonel.”
“No! Wait. Let’s talk it over first. I don’t want . . .” But she was talking to an empty line. She slammed the phone into its cradle, exasperated. “Not you, too!”
“Yerrrrap!” Rags was staring at her wide-eyed.
“I can’t help it Rags. I’m getting sick of people hanging up on me without saying goodbye. Especially people who know better.”
“Erf?”
“Oh, all right. So there is more to it than that. I hate having Colonel McLain called into everything, too.”
She shot a final glare at the telephone. She supposed she should be glad she hadn’t had time to change into her gardening clothes—no need to feel at a disadvantage when the lofty new neighbor was on his way. How that man had weaseled his way into the heart of their group when it took most people months and months and months to be accepted was beyond her!
Oh, he’d have been given the traditional dose of Southern Hospitality—which some newcomers mistook for instant friendship only to be disappointed later when they were all settled in and folks stopped helping—but this was more than that. He’d been really accepted almost immediately. Now she had a problem with it. Why did that irritate her?
She whistled Rags to heel, took him to the part of her yard reserved for his necessity and headed for Laura’s as soon as he’d done his business. As she and Rags reached the house, the Colonel was loping across the lawn from the high wall that separated his place from Laura’s. Having leaped it in a single bound, no doubt, Samantha thought uncharitably.
Without preamble he asked, “Miz Fulton lets you bring that mutt, does she?”
“Only on special occasions until now,” Laura said pleasantly from the open door before a more caustic comment could be made by Samantha. Then she turned her attention to the dog. Leaning down toward him she said, “But you’d better be on your best behavior, Rags.”
Laura’s attitude toward the terrier had softened considerably since he’d saved her best friend from the water moccasin.
“Ruff,” her diminutive guest promised, and she held the screen door open for him.
“Let’s sit in the kitchen, shall we?”
Since Laura’s kitchen boasted a comfortable breakfast nook with a bay window that looked out across her fabulous lawn and gardens to the river, no one would have minded even if half the conversations in the South didn’t take place around kitchen tables anyway.
They settled, Rags at Samantha’s feet, and Laura brought cups and the coffee pot.
Steam rose in a straight line from the Kona coffee in their cups as Samantha told them what Janet had said at lunch. They sat motionless, each thinking of the ramifications of Janet Wilson’s hesitant question.
When the Colonel finally hunched forward to put his elbows on the table, the steam from their coffee cups wavered with the currents in the air. It was as if some sort of a signal to begin to talk had been given.
Laura blew across the surface of the coffee in her cup and sipped. “Hmmm. Too hot.”
McLain took a gulp of his and grinned. “Coffee’s no good unless it’s hot enough to crack the enamel on your teeth, Laurie.”
Laura smiled back at him.
Samantha frowned. When did he get to calling Laura Laurie? And why did she resent it? It seemed she was the only one he rubbed the wrong way. Well, maybe her and Arthur Chamberlain. When in heaven’s name was she going to admit to herself that this man belonged in Riverhaven now she wondered? She didn’t usually behave so churlishly.
Murder Makes it Mine (Masters & McLain Mystery Book 1) Page 16